


Nightmares Are Dreams Too

by backtobedharry



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Narry - Freeform, Suicidal Harry, Suicidal au, narry storan - Freeform, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-09-06 10:53:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8747728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/backtobedharry/pseuds/backtobedharry
Summary: So this story is going to have a good amount of triggers so please, if you are afraid that it's going to be too much for you, stop reading now. If it does get to be too much for you, please stop reading. 
I'd like to note that the inspiration behind this story is my friend Nick who had shot himself in the chest with his dads gun. He did live through it, fortunately and is better than ever. Remember, please, that suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem, and you can get through this. You will. Through it all, I've got you. All my love. Every bit. 
 
 
"Who's to say that dreams and nightmares aren't as real as the here and now?"-John Lennon





	

**Author's Note:**

> So this story is going to have a good amount of triggers so please, if you are afraid that it's going to be too much for you, stop reading now. If it does get to be too much for you, please stop reading. 
> 
> I'd like to note that the inspiration behind this story is my friend Nick who had shot himself in the chest with his dads gun. He did live through it, fortunately and is better than ever. Remember, please, that suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem, and you can get through this. You will. Through it all, I've got you. All my love. Every bit. 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> "Who's to say that dreams and nightmares aren't as real as the here and now?"  
> -John Lennon

It's just another day in this hell hole called Cants but Harry isn't here. And Niall's texted- called even. But he's not answered. Rang through. Nada. Nothing. Zilch. Bloody wanker will probably sleep until 4 knowing him. Niall muses this to himself, shaking his head. And it kind of seems like today is going to be lazy. Bob is meandering near the office with Hazel and they look deep in conversation. Niall can't see Bob's face, but Hazel looks quite stunned. She looks exasperated- Niall decides. It makes him feel kind of uneasy.

Niall's eyes float around the room, and he realises that people are whispering. Niall's brows furrow as he casually lets his gaze land on Liam who's not really paying attention anyway and just shrugs when he comes to contact with Niall's concerningly distorted features.

"Where is Harry?" Niall finds himself asking no one in particular and suddenly a hand is cupping his shoulder. It's Bob.

"You should sit this one out," he says and Niall's face scrunches up into confusion. "You can sit in my office if you like."

"What did I do?" Niall asks, because he really doesn't know, and he feels tight. He feels nervous.

What the fuck is going on?

"Nothing. You didn't do anything, but-" and Hazel's loud nasal voice is ringing a little softer today- cutting Bob off. Niall pulls away from him because he wants to listen. Because he feels like something's really wrong. Niall crosses his arms and backs away from the other people around him.

"We have unfortunately lost a very lovely member of our team, last night," Hazel begins. Niall feels sick. Lost? "Unfortunately-" Hazel repeats, and it's for lack of a better word in Harry's case. "Young Mr. Styles has passed," Niall's heart slams into his mouth, and just about everyone is staring at him. He doesn't care. "It doesn't seem to have been an accident." Hazel says. "Seems that it was a suicide." Niall feels flush and sweaty all over, his arms drop to his sides and he feels faint. Really feels like he might vomit on the copier machine. "Let just- try to have a decent day." Hazel concludes.

There are a lot of people around Niall now. Touching him, cooing in his ear, and he sees stars. Like he's been hit with a metal baseball bat or something. Been hit with something akin to the size of a semi-truck. And they're all trying to talk to him, but he just starts to walk, Niall does. Pushes through them and he's heading for the door.

"Niall?" Hazel calls, but he doesn't care. He doesn't give a fuck. He's leaving. He's going to Harry's house because it isn't true. Can't be. Harry isn't dead. And he most certainly did not commit suicide, fuck you very much. He didn't. He couldn't have. Can't be. Just... can't be.

There's what looks like a lot of leftover chaos in the parking lot around Harry's building, but he goes for the door anyway. Harry is in there. He is. And he's just sleeping off a hangover. That's what it is. Bloody wanker he is.

Someone stops him. Stops Niall. "You can't go in there, son." It's a strong voice, too. A demanding one, and Niall quickly realises that it's an officer, decked out in his sleek black uniform with a belt sagging around his hips with a variety of handheld weapons. Everything from pepper spray to the not so little pistol in the side pouch. Niall's not very good at guns, never had much of an interest for them. He's pressing the pads of his fingers into Niall's chest and it feels strange because it's gentle but it's irregularly mortifying. Niall can't quite place it why he feels that way, either. So so- Niall dismisses.

"I've got- got to see my friend. He lives- here." Niall finds himself choking on his words as he stares at Harry's door. It looks weird. Maybe like it's been broken and half-ass repaired again. He doesn't remember it like that.

"Son, you can't enter." But Niall is suddenly shoving past him, a wild rage setting into him somewhere in his chest- all in his chest. He's impatient to see Harry, alive and well, and he's not going to wait any longer for that relief. The man is yelling as Niall swings open the door and just as Niall sees it, sees all the blood, the police tape, the two investigators standing looking horrified at Niall's brief presence, he's being yanked right back into the hallway and slung on the floor, and quickly pushed against the wall. He feels limp, eyes wide and skin pasty pale and cold. Can't be.

The cop who's hand is pressing Niall's chest and then his back into the wall is saying something over the Walkie talkie on his shoulder, but Niall can't hear him. Can't be.

-

Niall's staring at Harry's mother at the front of the room who's wiping her face with a pink handkerchief as multiple people hug and whisper sad despairs and best prayers they've ever said to her frail stature. The ceiling is low and there's a horrible smell. The music that's playing is music Harry would probably like- so at least there's that. It's all too sad, and for some reason Niall feels like he doesn't belong there. He feels like he shouldn't have to be standing there, the place wreaking of old people, too many flowers that Harry would not like and a huge man on oxygen who's been staring Niall down for the past ten minutes. But he stays. But he's angry.

Fuck Harry. What a bloody wanker he is.

Niall reaches Harry's mother and she reaches out to him, but- there he is. And Niall wonders how Harry's own mother can stand up here next to her waxy looking dead son.

"What happened?" Niall says, staring at Harry, and not taking the bait of Anne's arms stretched out in attempt at a hug that Niall doesn't want. And what's more, his voice is so bland- so painfully slow and resigned that a couple people around him kind of gasp. He doesn't care. Why should he. Anything that ever really mattered to Niall is lying cold and hollow in that casket.

"He left a note," Anne says as she turns, placing a hand over her mouth as she picks up the little envelope with Harry's terrible writing scratched onto it. Niall's name. And Niall just feels so flattered. How kind of fucking Harry to think of Niall in his last moments. His last fucking days, when he could have said something to Niall. Anything to Niall, and he would have been there. He would have, but what does it matter now? He's fucking dead. He's right there- well he isn't. He's not there. It's more like a wax figure of Harry like in the museums of famous stars and he doesn't look real. His lashes are clumped together, like he's been crying or something, and it looks like he's got lipstick on. No way his lips are still so pink in death. And his cheeks aren't really rosy and fat either. Niall wonders if they stuffed his mouth with cotton. Thats sick. Just leave him be.

Niall doesn't take the envelope yet. He's still looking at Harry. Or what is supposed to be Harry. And everyone is quiet. Thanks, Niall thinks savagely. And he reaches out, touches Harry's face, his temple, and he's cold like plastic. He's all too real and yet he's not real at all. Niall feels like the real Harry could come bursting through one of these ugly glass stained doors any moment. He would laugh, slap his knee, and it'd just all be one big joke. A very, very fucked up joke, nonetheless.

Niall's fingers push through his hair, and at least they didn't touch his damn hair. Yeah, it looks like it's been washed, but there's a spot of blood in the hairline and Niall brushes the dried bit out of it. He wishes he could've done Harry up himself, he'd look a lot better for his big day if Niall had had anything to say about it.

"I hate you." Niall whispers, his fingers still in Harry's sweet soft locks. "I loved you." Niall says, his voice regular. He stares at Harry a while longer because- well... he won't ever be able to again. Not for real. Not after this. He leans forward, thinks it's sick. Thinks he looks insane, but he doesn't care. Niall simply places a kiss in his hair, and squeezes Harry's hand. Those are the only two things that are the same. That's all that's left of Harry right now, in this room, at this moment, and that envelope.

Niall takes it from Anne who is sobbing silently and waiting patiently and he gives her a hug, absent of condolences and he leaves. And he cries.

Niall's trembling terribly and no one from there to the door dares to make eye contact with him for the wretched look on his face. And Niall realises once he's reached the crisp, shitty December cold that there are cars parked down the streets for what looks like miles. Everywhere. And there's a million people flooding that ugly little building. And it's not enough. All of this- it isn't enough for Harry. He deserved more. Niall would have given Harry the world. He should have. Maybe then he would have stayed.

-

Niall's drunk. Oh... he is piss drunk. And it's kind of miserable on him. He feels and looks miserable. And he is, but he's so angry. And he hasn't cried since the swerving drive home from Harry's viewing. Niall feels incredibly hopeless, and there's a darkness ticking its head at Niall and making him consider it. Making him consider offing his own damn self because fuck this. Fuck this world without Harry Styles in it. Harry is sunshine. He's pink lips and flushed cheeks and long legs tripping over himself and he's corny jokes and awkward smiles and this world is dull- embarrassingly vacant without Harry in its midst. And Niall doesn't want it. No, he does not.

And he hasn't read it yet. Hasn't even opened it because he can't seem to find the right moment. There's no right time, place or setting in which he feels right doing so. So he simply stares at it. Longs for it, and he could- but he can't.

Niall feels it- a darkness circling him, foggy overhead- in his head, and he recalls all the words he never said. The thoughts he desperately dismissed in fear of losing Harry. And look. Look now.

How selfish of him. How misunderstanding he was of Harry's faint jokes of loneliness and now blistering laughs about how fucked up the world was. He hated it, didn't he? He hated this world. But he loved Niall. Niall knows, because Harry told him. He told Niall how important he was- how thankful he was for Niall. And Niall awed in the recognition, in the praise.

How selfish of him.

-

Niall dreams of emerald that night. Of eyes that always smiled, and pink lips that always laughed at his worst jokes. He dreams about long, mostly unkept brunette locks to hide under. About soft hands and nails chewed. He dreams about paper cuts and texts late at night, in the middle of the day, while driving, while right next to one another. And he wakes up. And he cries. Cries for loss, cries for the world, cries for Harry. Oh... Harry...

 

  
-

 

  
Niall hasn't been to work in three weeks. It doesn't really matter much since he's still living with his mom. He's only 19. He's in no rush to devour the world with obnoxious independence. Maura tries to make him eat, but he's got no feel for it. He's deprived of appetite and anytime she does manage to force something into Niall- it comes back all soggy and foul smelling anyway. It disgusts him, like most things these days.

It's all horseshit, Niall thinks. Pointless.

Niall hasn't opened the letter, and he's beginning to wonder if he ought to just burn the damn thing. Figures he might throw a party of one in Harry's honour, get absolutely pissed and burn it. Set out a little fire for Harry, let him go out in the spark that he deserved. Allow him that fire. Maybe that's what Niall will do. That's what he will do. For Harry.

-

"Who else did he write to?" Niall asks, Anne sitting patiently on the other end of the line. It's 3:46 am. She is so patient. Like Harry. Unlike Harry. Niall isn't sure anymore. But he is.

"Me." And it's a whisper of groggy despair that makes Niall cringe. "Just you and I, love." She says, so soft and serene that Niall wishes he could have her here now- petting his hair and cooing gentle motherly words in his ear until he falls asleep.

"Have you read it?" Niall is asking, and it rolls off his tongue but it wasn't meant to.

"No." she says, and Niall waits for a sigh, but he doesn't. "I'm not ready." She says, much to Niall's surprise. But not really. Because he's not ready either.

"Me too." He just says. The share a long silence. In honour of Harry- Niall thinks.

-

Harry wouldn't want to see Niall this way. He wouldn't want him like this. But that's just too bad- too bad because he is this way. And it's Harry's fault. And Niall has been told that he'll experience a lot of different feelings- anger, regret, acceptance, grief. He's not sure of the order though, because it seems like he's feeling something different every five minutes. And sometimes- sometimes it comes all at once.

-

It's been four months, Niall hasn't worked since. He hasn't opened the envelope. He hasn't burned it either, but it's spring and maybe he will have that fire he was thinking about. He considered inviting Liam and Louis- maybe even Zayn- the prick, but he won't. It's just him and Harry. That's how he wants it. That's how he's always wanted it. Just the two of them.

-

It's a good campfire and Niall's gotten a good amount of wood to keep it ablaze for a few hours. He reckons he's going to need that time to get pissed and say his goodbyes. Planning ahead Niall says aloud to no one. To Harry maybe.

-

"You're such a fucking bloody stupid wanker." Niall's scoffs at the blurred writing on the envelope.

Niall

Niall kind of feels like Harry ought to have drawn a frowny face next to his name as he opens it. And then he realises he has, in fact, opened it.

Niall's heart slams against his ribs, over and over and over and over and over again as he unfolds the neatly folded piece of notebook paper inside. He imagines Harry folding it, carefully so as not to make any unnecessary creases and Niall laughs, muses on it. He smirks at Harry. Why? Why in that time of need didn't he shoot Niall a text and Niall would have dropped everything- a new born baby if he'd so happened to been holding one and would've gladly rushed to Harry's side. He could have, Harry could have. Niall would have. But he didn't. They didn't.

Niall's hands are shaking. He isn't cold- he's anxious. Anxious like he's never felt before and he hopes that the letter is long and not just a few last stitch effort kinds of condolences to ease Niall's inevitably tired mind and wounded heart. Because this- this is the last of Harry Niall's got. This is the last bit of physical evidence he has that Harry ever really existed. That he was ever even real to begin with. Harry Styles was something that of a dream, Niall thinks.

It's two pages, stapled together. It's not enough. Niall starts to read. He's not ready. He definitely is.

"Well shit. If you're reading this then that means my sorry arse actually went through with it. That kind of sucks,"

Niall is immediately put off- his face warping into disgust- rage even. Harry making jokes before his suicide. Fuck him. He is a sorry arse.

"And by the way, you can wipe that shitty look off your face now."

Niall wants to fucking scream. He wants to bring Harry back from the dead and kill him all over again with his own bare hands. That bloody fucking wanker!

"Alright. I'm sorry. No really.

I'm sorry I didn't tell you. But I knew it was just a matter of time. I was a grenade. A ticking time bomb, and you couldn't be bothered to blame yourself. And you don't. You can't, because it isn't your fault."

Niall hates the chipper tone in which he's reading it, but he can't pick it up any other way. And what's worse is that Niall is devastatingly positive that Harry has meant for it to be read like this, too. Wanker.

"I'm sure by now you've found out that I'm only writing to you and my mum. My mum is obvious, but you... I had to write. I had to tell you.

And before I go on, I just want to say that if you're going to read this load of shit and ponder all over the what-ifs of the situation then you should just stop now and throw this damn thing in a fire or something."

Niall considers this, momentarily peeking up at the flames before him. He caries on nonetheless.

"If you're still reading- Great. If I'm burning into ashes- well... might be for the better."

Jesus.

"There's a lot of reasons for this. For what I've done, and I'm fairly positive that you've got some idea having seen the current state of the world we live in.

But there's more than that.

I'm sad, Niall. (Was sad) I'm sad in a way that is near paralysing. It really makes me fucking sick. Every day I wake up and I'm afraid. Of what, you could be asking?

Everything.

I'm afraid of the way I talk, of the way I see things, of the way people stare at me. I'm afraid of being hurt, of being rejected. And these are normal feelings, I know that.

But it consumes me. I am consumed with unfathomable self doubt and hatred and my quality of living is quite next to shit if I'm being perfectly honest.

And I'm alone a lot. I've got too much time to think, and I've got to much time to question myself. I've too much time to ponder on what-ifs and regretful memories and embarrassing moments that steal my breath and make me wake up wheezing in the dead of night. And for a long time I guess I thought that maybe that was life. That's just experiencing life in all of the deep and confusing and complex ways that it will present itself.

But, Niall, I am tired.

God... I'm so tired. And I know it's my fault, I know I should've told you, but I just couldn't. I couldn't take that kind of innocence out of your eyes and replace it with something so dark.

It is hard to explain what I'm feeling, and why such a dramatic approach is being taken. I can't put it all into words, but I'm trying. I promise."

Niall sets the paper down on his lap because... well... he needs a break. He can hear these words, hear them in Harry's slow drawl of a voice- deep and raspy and careful and it hurts. God... it hurts so much.

"There's something I've got to tell you, Niall. Apart from all the stupid shit and reasons why. That is absurdly pointless on the account that I'm probably long dead in the ground by now. What's done is done, you know."

It's a statement. Not a question, Niall notes.

"From- well, not from the day I met you. Because truthfully at first I thought you were a complete arse.

But, Niall you were a light in my little tunnel of scary shit. In my world of twists and confusing fuckery and pained mornings days and nights, you were the one thing that stood still. You're so good. You were so good to me, but that's not why. That's not why I fell for you.

Yeah- you read that right. I fell. Hard. So hard. You were my sun- as fucking corny as that sounds. You were everything bright and good in my life. You were everything bright and good in everyone's life."

Ditto.

"You were- are, such a beautiful person. Your soul. Your mind. Your heart. Everything. And let's be honest- you aren't that bad looking either. I am in awe of you."

Niall feels faint. Dizzy and confused. It doesn't make sense, and Niall attempts to get on his feet but it's like he's glued to the chair. He looks down at the letter- Harry's handwriting squished into strange little symbols that don't make a lot of sense to Niall anymore.

All that's there, all he can understand is "Niall. Niall. Niall. Niall. Niall." Unwavering in Harry's chicken scratch handwriting. And he can hear Harry's voice too. And it's so loud, so in his face that he's looking around for the man himself.

"Harry?" Niall breathes into the phone. "Harry?" He repeats.

"Niall? What's wrong?" Harry is asking. And Niall flails, falls out of his bed and onto a half eaten bag of chips.

"Harry!?" Niall is shaking, clutching the phone with both hands.

"Niall? I'm coming over," Harry grunts, and Niall can't hear some moving around like paper in the background. "Hang on, though, just a second," Harry sighs. The paper sound continues.

"What are you doing, Harry?"

"Uh- er- nothing." Harry stumbles on words and Niall's not usually likely to believe that one hell of a fucked up dream could give him insight into the future. But it was so unnaturally realistic that Niall can't ignore it. He won't. "You realised you called me right?" Harry laughs- not wholeheartedly. Niall notices. Of course he does, he silently vows to himself that he's going to notice everything from now on.

"Fuck that, I'm coming to your place." Niall says as he starts wiggling into his jeans.

"What? Niall- I don't think now is- now is not a good time."

"Stay on the phone with me, okay? Please?" Niall asks, much softer, kinder.

"Okay." Harry almost whispers.

Niall notices.

-

Harry hangs up the phone, opens the door, and Niall is flinging himself into Harry's arms in an instant. He's so warm, and his house smells like cinnamon and like he's had the screen door open while smoking. It reminds him of his dream- minus the musky iron stench.

"Niall?"

"Harry," Niall cries. And he is- he's crying. He's crying for Harry. He's crying for him, because Niall is afraid, be it that he's just waken up from possibly the worst dream- nightmare, that anyone has ever had.

Harry puts his arms around Niall, and Niall notices that Harry is trembling. His stature shaking in the doorway, muscles tight. Niall pulls away from him, shuts the door behind them and walks into Harry's space.

"Harry," Niall says, carefully searching the room with only his eyes. "If that letter starts out with a joke, I'll kill you meself." Niall says, and he turns to look at Harry who is stunned. His eyes are deep emerald in the dim lighting of his flat, wide and guilty. "Let's have it." Niall says, holding his hand out.

"How did you," Harry trails off, his words left lingering somewhere but Niall doesn't bother reaching for them.

"Where?" And suddenly Harry is bashful, and Niall isn't mean with his words, but he's stern. He's serious. He's also in awe that he might possibly be right about all this. It's unsettling for sure, but it's got to wait.

Harry points to his dresser and Niall studies him for a moment before approaching it. Harry is slowly, carefully taking a seat on the couch. He's bracing himself, he's confused, he's sad too. Niall knows this.

He opens the drawer with a creak of old frictional familiarity. It makes Niall's head hurt. That envelope. That gun.

He turns back to Harry, feeling no need to disguise the pain in his eyes. Harry isn't looking at him. Instead though, "how did you know?" It's a whisper.

"As weird as it sounds, I had a dream." Harry chances a glance in Niall's direction looking doubtful, unconvinced.

"Okay, Martin... if you say so."

"Harry, please." Niall's eyes are closed now, the envelope in his hand lacking a seal as he flips it between his finger, gesturing for Harry to stop. Because it's not a joke. It isn't. And quite frankly, Niall is mortified, and sick, and he can't let this happen. Not now, not in the future. Never. He needs Harry. Needs him so much, and Niall wonders why he's thinking these things, and meaning to say them out loud. So he does.

"Harry. Haz, I know this is a shite world we live in. I know you're tired. I know you're out of options. I know I don't really know. I'm sorry for that-"

"Don't pity me," Harry says. It's quiet, but his words are quick and unlike Niall is used to hearing them. It almost throws him off. But only almost. He goes on.

"I don't pity you, Harry," Niall's almost whining and he's got tears in his eyes. His cheeks he knows are rosy and flush with despair for loss he hasn't encountered yet. "I love you."

Harry stares at him slack-jawed. "What?" He looks like he's trying not to take it the wrong way. But Niall means it. Of course he does. Harry is his whole world. He's been his whole world since day one.

"I love you," Niall falls to his knees in front of Harry, sprawling his arms and torso across Harry's lap. "You aren't a time-bomb." Harry's lips part with those words. He's amazed with the knowledge Niall's got and if he's being honest, he does too, Niall does. It's all weird, but that's not the matter.

"It's inevitable," he whispers.

"It doesn't have to be," Niall says, cupping both of Harry's flushed cheeks in the palms of his hands. "I'll stay with you, every moment of every day. I'm right here, and no, not for pity's sake. It's because I love you, Harry. And I know it's selfish in a sense, but you can't do this to me." Niall is practically begging. He is begging, and Harry's confusion turns into remorse, into happiness, into love and he's trembling with it.

-

"You had a dream?" Harry whispers in the kind, peaceful darkness. Niall nods, hums a little. Harry's head is rested safely in the crook of his neck, his hand brushing slow fingers through the snarls of Harry's long curls- forever soft. "Would you," Harry pauses, as if debating his questions, "would you mind to tell me about it?" Niall opens his eyes.

"I'm afraid that this is a dream too. It was so real. Abnormally real. Awful." Niall's tethering on the edge of spitting the words. Harry cringes, but Niall is pressing the soft pads of his fingers into Harry's scalp, massaging it with all the comfort Niall can muster. "I went to work one day... tomorrow," Niall remembers, "and they told us, told us you were gone." A sound comes from Harry's throat, Niall's not sure about it- not sure what Harry is feeling, thinking, and he wants to know. Has to. "What are you thinking?"

"I dunno," Harry says, unconvincingly. Niall shuffles a little, and gives Harry an expectant look. He remains silent. Someone once told him silence is the equal to screaming your goddamn head off- just, nicer. "That's how you found out?"

"Yeah." Niall replies. Harry nods, and looks like he's thinking again.

"That's shite. Sorry," he says, and his fingers grip Niall's shirt in another form of apology.

"Was a dream, yeah." Niall sighs. Harry looks up at him, and Niall has missed that. He's missed Harry's eyes. They're so stunning. Bright and green, and most importantly- alive. Alive with feeling and emotion and joy and sorrow. Just alive.

"But, it might've turned out the same." Harry says, and he smells good. Really good, and Niall notices that too.

"It's not all bad, Harry. This world isn't. There's things you've got to see, and feel. Things that you can't stop no matter how hard you try because it is just- it's fate," Niall waved his free hand in the air as if to gesture at fate itself, as if it were a being that could be seen right in front of them. And- it's kind of is. "Like you, Harry. Like me. It's fate." And Harry scoots closer, watching Niall carefully like a toddler being read a bedtime story.

"I came here. Left work- came straight here. Some bloody bloke wouldn't let me in, but I had to see you. I had to know that it wasn't real. Couldn't be real." Niall's voice cracks and Harry's so responsive. His hand twists deeper into Niall's shirt, holding him there like he might slip away somehow. He won't.

"That's when I saw... all the blood. Everything. Not you- you were long gone. They'd hoisted you off somewhere, they took you from me."

"Niall," Harry breathes, and it's so crisp and pained with regret for an act he's not yet committed, but it hurts all the same. Stings- smarts like nothing he's ever known. No, not ever. Never in his life. And that's something to think about. And he reckons, Harry does- that he ought to stay. Because nothing- not one thing in this world is worse than a pained Niall. Nothing Harry has ever experienced had ever brought him more pain than that. He just wants Niall to be happy. Bottom line and the period.

"I went to see you," Niall says, his brows furrowing, and he ponders this question because it's making him want to gag, but he asks anyway. Maybe he doesn't need to know this- but he wants to. "You shot yourself?" Niall's saying- his face feels swollen and hot- aches with a dull pain in both of his temples. Harry's unsure how to answer.

"That was the plan."

"Where?" Niall only slightly regrets bugging this out of Harry.

"I thought I might put it to me head. But, figured me heart instead."

Niall aches.

Niall wreathes with unwarranted pain.

Niall shivers.

He feels so sick. Oh... Harry...

"Why?" Niall probes, his voice so soft, Harry has to make sure he's heard the word right.

"Felt right." Is his reply.

There's nothing right about that. Niall wants to say, but he doesn't.

"I saw your mum. She's the one who gave me the letter. But I saw you," Niall croaks. "Y' looked like- plastic. Like a wax figure," Niall recalls. And it's sad. Harry hates it. "Eyes glued shut. Mouth stuffed with cotton balls so your cheeks wouldn't hollow. Just dead." Niall says, cringes, and Harry does too. For the first time in what seems like forever- death to Harry seems a lot more unsettling and less blissful. "Your hair, and your hands though- still the same. I don't know what it was, but that was the same." Oh... poor Harry...

"I didn't read the letter for months. Thought I wouldn't ever. Thought I might toss it in a fire. And by the way- I think it's worth telling you that there were people lined up for blocks to see your sorry arse." Niall takes his eyes off the ceiling where's he's been recalling the sour memories and glances at Harry. He smiles.

"But then I did-" Niall continues. "I read it- or started to. And the words got real blurry, all fucked up and then I woke up- to you. On the phone and oh-" Niall nearly gasps, "Harry I'm so glad. I'm so glad you're here."

And Harry winces at the love in Niall's voice. And it's good. And he's glad too, Harry is. And that's when he decides- makes up his mind for good.

He will stay. For Niall. For himself. For everything that happens here on out. Harry decides he will be there for it, good and bad.

Decides that he wants to, too.


End file.
